


Marked

by rageprufrock



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-11
Updated: 2011-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-23 15:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rageprufrock/pseuds/rageprufrock





	Marked

Eames used to think a long fuck was an hour, when at the end of it his hips are sore and he's got a fucking charley horse and everybody's gasping for air and dying for oxygen — he didn't know shit.

Fucking Arthur is a profoundly humbling experience, because he's pretty sure that ever since he walked into the warehouse this morning, they've been engaged in foreplay, but his judgment can't be trusted since all of his blood is in his dick. Normally, in these circumstances, he'd check with Arthur, but Arthur's been lounging with uncharacteristic, languid self-indulgence on the one couch in the space, his hair a wreck and the faint hint of a bruise showing over the perfect starched collar of his shirt, his body loose like an invitation, and every time Eames looks in his direction his mouth goes dry and he just wants to get up between Arthur's perfect thighs and slide his dick right back in, where he knows Arthur is hot, and wet and fucked-open and soft already.

After lunch — Ariadne brings them take out — Arthur vanishes into the bathroom, coming back nearly purring, and Eames squirms in his seat and then fucking squirms harder when Arthur slides a sheet of paper over to him, fingertips leaving wet dots on the corner.

"Arthur come on, you're getting water on my sketches," Ariadne sighs, wiping at it with her scarf, and the way Arthur murmurs, "sorry about that," and stares at Eames the entire time is enough for Eames to know that is not fucking water. The problem is exacerbated when Arthur manages to find an excuse to slide two of his fingers over his mouth, just nursing on them, lavish and content.

It's half-two by the time Eames trusts himself to send Arthur an email from across the room saying, "darling you're a filthy fucking _slut_ ," and Arthur writes back a half-beat later, "It's not my fault you were still leaking out of me."

***

The first couple of weeks after Arthur had finally condescended to fuck him, Eames felt like he was being backed over by a lorry on an hourly basis — a lorry filled with sex.

It's like seeing the black and forbidding skin of a volcano and touching the surface to be engulfed in flames: Arthur doesn't have a lick of sexual modesty, zero shame, just a wide-open greediness that brings Eames to his knees. Arthur wants to try everything, and then he wants to do it again. Arthur wants to kiss for hours, rub Eames off in the backseats of cars, make sure Eames wakes up with his cock down Arthur's throat, so Arthur's gagging on it, choking on spunk until it pours over his lips and down the white column of his throat. He wants to ride Eames's face, let Eames eat him out until he's wet and dripping and begging, incoherent. And then worse, most tremendously cruel and demanding of all, Arthur wants to get up and put on his tailored shirts and bespoke three-piece suits, and button it all up and down, hidden away from view, so that Eames has to look at him, the lissom turn of his hips all day, and know that underneath the trousers there's still a line of drying spunk down the inside of Arthur's thigh.

"I thought I said if you couldn't keep it professional, don't," Cobb says to him.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Eames lies, and Cobb squints at him; he hates it when Cobb wanders into his line of sight to destroy the well-heeled Victorian erotica that is Arthur doing differential equations on the whiteboard with rolled-up sleeves. Eames is cognizant that he's developing some seriously fucked up fetishes.

Cobb rolls his eyes. "Your pen exploded all over your mouth about 10 minutes ago."

"Shit," Eames says.

That night, Arthur won't let Eames come anywhere near his clothes, citing treacherous and still lingering touches of ball-point pen all over him. Eames has never been one for watching when he's in close enough proximity to touch, but there's something about the way Arthur's so fucking casual with his $17,000 of menswear, the way he takes off his tie, his fingers trailing down the line of buttons, that makes Eames ache.

"There's no way you're ruining that suit," Arthur says, breathless already, his cock hard and leaving a wet spot Eames can see on the crotch of his heather-gray briefs. "I endured so much sexual harassment for that suit."

"Tell me all about it," Eames says, wishing he could put his mouth over the tip of Arthur's cock through the cloth, just suck him slow and savoring, little kitten licks, until he had one of those orgasms that felt like succumbing to sleep: intense, and dreamy and good. "I'll go kick their arses."

Arthur laughs, undoes the cuffs of his shirt now, too, so he's standing in his briefs and his button-down, fringe in his face, making him look so young that it just layers another element of the delicious to it.

"There were a lot of hands in my inseam, Eames," Arthur says, eyes gleaming, and he hooks his thumbs along the waist of the briefs and starts to drag them down his legs. "Fingers stroking up the split in the back — Bernard, the tailor, dragged his thumb right over — "

"Christ," Eames declares, and tackles him to the carpet.

He wrenches Arthur's legs open — leaving dark blue smears from the pen ink on those soft, white thighs, and Eames wants to bite them, leave teeth marks, leave Arthur ruined so everybody knows it — and Arthur laughs and tries to stop him, but not very much. Not at all when Eames growls at him, swearing Welsh swears under his breath and spits on his fingers, pushes the luxe weave of the cotton out of the way so he and shove them into Arthur, nails scraping, a little. Arthur hisses, legs tightening around Eames's chest, and Eames can't help but say, "You were asking for it, you fucking tease," and fucks him harder, vicious, with three fingers on the dry drag of skin until Arthur's heartbeat skitters — Eames can feel it from the inside out — and he punches the orgasm out of him and Arthur actually shouts, and the sudden shock of it must hurt a little.

He leaves Arthur on the floor to go find the lube, and then when he comes back he makes sure Arthur's soaking with it, the hot, pink clutch of him already fucked open, exhausted, and Eames takes the time to chase all the pearly, sticky strings of jizz down from Arthur's white belly and behind the soft skin of his perineum, rubs it into his hole.

"There's a love," he coos, and presses his cock in, easy, and Arthur's so warm and wet and oversensitive, his arse still twitching, and every stroke must feel like a scrape of teeth over his cock, but Arthur is so good at taking it Eames can't resist, just fucks into him, greedy and careless, loving the sticky slap of skin and the way Arthur's sac feels — wet and spent — at the apex of his groin when he shoves in.

Arthur just stretches into it, rolls his hips into it, pants, "Eames, Eames," claws his fingernails into Eames's forearms, braced on the carpet, mouth wet and red and wanting.

"God, you're so fucking sloppy around me," Eames says, spewing bullshit at this point, gone right past erotically flirtatious into degrading. "Fucking love your cunt — fucking you open. Love using you up — " he braces himself on an elbow, stroking his hand down Arthur's chest, breathing hot against his mouth " — could I make you come for me again, darling? So soon? Would it hurt?"

Arthur moans. "Already hurts," he says, but his hands are an iron grip searing half-moon cuts into Eames's shoulders.

"Didn't sound like a no," Eames says, and reaches down to where they're joined up, slick and semen and sweat making it halfway impossible to get any traction, but he slides two fingers in along with his cock and fucks Arthur with those, too, chanting, "Come on, do it — yeah — do it, let me feel you," until Arthur makes a noise like he's dying and his whole body seizes up until Eames thinks his dick is going to come off.

It takes them an hour to relocate to the bed — there's an enormous and obvious wet-spot on the hotel carpet — and for Eames to get enough cognitive function back to ask, "Did you come?"

Arthur, sprawled out on his stomach, laughs, a little crazy. "I don't fucking know — but that was amazing."

"We'll chalk it up as a win," Eames decides, and passes out.


End file.
